The Flame
by ChelsieSouloftheAbbey
Summary: One-shot period fic for Chelsietothenorthern to celebrate her birthday! Fluffity fluff fluff as we contemplate a butler falling in love.


**A/N: HAPPY BIRTHDAY, chelsietothenorthern!**

 **CttN had but one specification when she sent her request - simply that it be a Chelsie songfic. The song I chose is by Joe Jencks and its title is "The Candle and the Flame." You can find it on Spotify and also Apple Music, and I posted a link on my tumblr the other day.**

 **Here you are, my dear, with my deep appreciation for the time you spend reading and sharing your thoughts about each and every one of** _ **all**_ **of our stories. You're one in a million, and I hope you have a spectacular day!**

 **xxx**

 **CSotA**

* * *

 _ **She haunts your heart at midnight**_

 _ **When you know that you should rest**_

 _ **You see her beauty in the sunrise**_

 _ **Feel a burning in your breast …**_

Charles was able to remember the first time it happened well enough, could remember waking up suddenly in the middle of the night, sitting straight up in bed, hand clutching the pyjamas over his chest as he willed his heart to steady its overwhelming beating. He barely ever remembered dreams when he woke, but he remembered _that_ one well enough. The image of the housekeeper's dark hair flowing softly in the breeze as it cascaded down her back, the sound of her laughter, the gentleness of her touch as her fingertips danced across his cheek …

It didn't help his heart to slow down, this recollection of the dream, and he forced it out of his mind by thinking of the wine shipment scheduled to arrive that day, the types and number of cases, the ones that would go into his Lordship's cellar, and the one bottle he'd be receiving for his own private store. He moved from that to examining every minute detail of the crack in his bedroom ceiling, going so far as to get up from the bed and trace the crack itself with his fingertip, counting the small branches of the main fissure and realizing that there were two more since the last time he'd counted. He attributed them to the extraordinarily cold winter they'd had, and finally noticed that his heart was now beating at a steady rate.

" _Do you ever wish you'd … gone another way?"_

 _Yes, Mrs. Hughes,_ he thought as he climbed back into bed. _Every. Damned. Day. I only wish I could have answered you truthfully._

He sighed heavily.

 _Someday …_

But his 'someday' didn't look like it would be arriving anytime in the near future, or really _at all_ once he thought about it.

He wondered, as he lay back down on the pillow, if she'd ever walked out with a young man in her early years, prior to going into service. He knew precious little of her life, really, save that she'd grown up a farm girl and that her father had recently died. But those small details, little things that emerged over cups of tea in her office or, occasionally, over a small glass of sherry in his, didn't satisfy his real curiosity. They were details about what he considered one's _exterior_ life - the bits that everyone knew about a person - but he found as he settled back into a fitful slumber that he wanted to know more. He couldn't even put a finger on when _that_ happened, but surely it was well before she'd forced him to lie by asking the wrong question.

He'd wanted to reply honestly, wanted to ask a great many questions himself, but it was hopeless. One simply didn't achieve what they had achieved in a house of great standing such as Downton and give it all up for an old, washed-up dream … no matter _how_ tempting the dream appeared.

He slept only another hour before being woken again, this time by the hall boy's knock on the door.

"Mr. Carson? Are ye all right, then? Breakfast in ten!"

Charles jumped out of bed and hurriedly prepared himself. A cold splash of water on his face and a comb through his hair, grateful that he always set his clothes out the night before. Ever prepared, ever ready … but never _late._ Not before, anyhow.

He'd love to have been able to blame Mrs. Hughes for his tardiness in the morning, and the double-entendre of the entire thought caused him to blush furiously as he entered the servants' hall and saw her, and he feigned a cough to cover it up.

She reached for his arm as they all sat and Mrs. Patmore delivered the tea. He glanced over and saw a small ray of sunlight bounce off of her hair, and he was enraptured.

"Steady on, Mr. Carson. Are you well?"

His eyes fell on her hand, which she quickly withdrew from his forearm when she felt his gaze upon her.

"I am, thank you," he replied, and he tucked into his breakfast.

 _Another untruth._

 _ **The fruit of all temptation**_

 _ **From some forbidden tree.**_

 _ **But the feeling that you long for**_

 _ **Only lives when it is free ...**_

Charles finally admitted to himself around Christmas, 1918 that he was actually in love with the housekeeper, that it was not just a passing schoolboy crush or some inkling of impure, lustful thoughts that haunted his dreams. It was horrible timing given that the country was at war, but he felt they had come closer to one another during those awful first months, over days when they'd seen their charges - their _friends,_ he supposed - heading off for God only knew what, and they'd bolstered one another ever since. He'd felt guilty when the War had first broken out, watching all the young ones go and knowing that it was his position in the house that kept him behind,* but then sixteen words, uttered in a lovely Scottish brogue and replayed in his mind countless times, had banished the thought forever:

" _I'm so grateful you're still here, Mr. Carson. I'm not sure what I'd do without you."_

It had been a whisper in the corridor, when he'd caught her out with tears in her eyes contemplating poor William's inevitable demise; he'd laid a hand upon her shoulder in comfort as he'd passed behind her and stopped, and she'd reached up to squeeze it, the words tumbling from her lips before she had rushed away down the corridor. She'd left him staring after her helplessly and wishing he could have drawn her body into his embrace despite knowing that even the simple touch he _had_ offered had been, technically, inappropriate.

From that moment forward, every glimpse he got of her was a gift, every word a song in his heart.

One afternoon, after he'd finished decanting a bottle of wine, he contemplated the candle itself. He reached his fingers toward the flame, mesmerized by how it danced and changed before his eyes and realized that he could appreciate its beauty but never touch it with his own fingertips without serious, painful consequence.

He began to think of Mrs. Hughes in much the same way as the flame - a woman whose beauty he could appreciate, whose company he could enjoy, and knew it would have to be enough.

And so, starting that day, he began to show his affection in the small ways that _weren't_ impossible - offering his elbow more often as they walked to and from church on Sundays, preparing her tea occasionally instead of waiting for _her_ to prepare _his,_ offering a book he thought she'd enjoy and - once - even reading one of _her_ recommendations, a book he knew he'd despise but which would be yet another excuse to sit and talk with her for hours about characters and plot lines and the things that resonated inside of her heart. It wasn't much, but it would have to be enough. She'd never given any indication that she wished to have been married. In fact, when she'd spoken so long ago about the farmer whose proposal she'd turned down, she'd made it clear that the idea wasn't appealing to her at all. It didn't matter anyhow; in their positions, it wasn't allowed. He doubted it would be allowed for Mr. Bates and Anna, either. But no matter; he knew his affection was returned in some small way. He could feel the level of care Mrs. Hughes had for him in every word and action when they were together, in the way she watched over him when he was ill and even in the small things she did that made his day easier. But he convinced himself that by pressing her for more, he'd lose the precious little of her that he already had; therefore, he chose to treasure the gift of her in the only ways he knew how … quietly, contemplatively, as a friend, keeping any forward acknowledgement of the beauty that she brought to his life tucked safely away inside of his heart.

 _ **Unexpectedly you see her**_

 _ **In the middle of your day,**_

 _ **She fills your heart with wonder**_

 _ **As you try to look away ...**_

It wasn't until she took ill that he seriously began to question his ability to remain silent about his feelings. He'd spent so many years watching her intently that he noticed it immediately, the signs so obvious to him that he wondered how no one _else_ seemed to be looking at her any differently. She had faint circles beneath her eyes, and a few times at the dinner table he was afraid she'd actually nod off. She wasn't as lively at breakfast, didn't converse with the staff as much as usual throughout the day, and she completely missed the fact that Daisy had come down with a head cold until Mrs. Patmore happened to mention it in passing.

He blundered his way through it all, offering help and asking if she was tired. She became cross with him, and he'd have been lying if he tried to tell himself that even in her consternation and fatigue he didn't find her alluring. He spoke to the doctor, asking questions he had no business asking. He spoke quite out of turn to Lady Grantham, seeking assistance and care should any be needed.

In short, he acted like he thought a _husband_ might do. It was dangerous, and it had infuriated her, but he couldn't bring himself to regret anything he'd done.

And he couldn't bring himself to contemplate what he'd have done if he'd lost her.

She forgave him, but it was difficult going for a while between them. Months later, he realized she must have known that Mrs. Patmore had kept him informed. Mrs. Hughes even teased him once about it, and he was certain in that very moment that the lovesick look which was surely written all over his face had given him away. He promised himself to rein in his emotions, to put a cap on his overflowing, inexplicable need to be everything to her, and he withdrew a bit, back to what their friendship had always been before her illness, knowing he'd be wise not to ever act like a husband again.

 _ **A dangerous desire,**_

 _ **But you cannot stem the tide.**_

 _ **The ebb and flow of all your dreamings**_

 _ **You keep locked up deep inside ...**_

Her hand was cool in his when he finally took hold of it, and the sensation startled him. He'd done a poor job of managing his sleep since Lady Rose's ball, and he understood much too late that the lack of sleep mixed with the heat on the beach was not conducive to keeping his wits about him.

" _You can always hold my hand …"_

Whether he needed steadying or not, _those_ were the words to which he was clinging. And as the cold water washed over the outsides of his feet, it was on the inside where he felt himself drowning. She was rattling on about the staff, the ball, the beach, and more, yet all he heard was the beating of his heart as he forced himself not to declare his love for her then and there, away from prying eyes and ears.

Something happened on the beach that day with her proffered hand and words of encouragement.

 _Perhaps she was right,_ he thought as he sat beside her on the train back to Downton. _Perhaps we_ _ **can**_ _live a little._

 _ **And the angels dance around her head**_

 _ **When the moon shines on her hair.**_

 _ **There are galaxies within her eyes**_

 _ **Untold stories linger there.**_

In the end, it was the silliest thing that tipped him over the edge into the oblivion that would (by the grace of God and no small amount of luck) ultimately lead them into marriage. It was a stolen moment, really, something entirely unexpected.

He'd been strolling through the house, checking up on this thing and that, making sure the hall was ready for the imminent arrival of the Christmas tree. The rug had been rolled away and the boxes of ornaments brought down from storage, ladders standing at the ready for the trimming and settling of the tree.

The small, inquisitive voice, so like her mother's, made him stop in his tracks. Miss Sybbie often had Lady Sybil's way about her - impish, yes, but with a depth to her eyes and her thoughts that was far beyond her years. He was glad to have heard her before seeing her, because it prepared him for the presence of the young girl's companion.

He tucked himself away in the corner to listen to a bit of the conversation, something he'd have scolded any of his footman for doing had he caught them out. When he heard Mrs. Hughes attempt to explain to the small girl of four that her mother was now an angel who would _always_ watch out for her - that the housekeeper knew this because her own mother was an angel, too - his heart simply overflowed.

He didn't realize until moments later that his eyes had overflowed a bit, too, and he was grateful for the wall behind him that he could lean on until he composed himself. Visions crashed through his mind of Mrs. Hughes as a mother, as a grandmother, her gentle-yet-firm way of teaching, of a small brood of lads and lasses with long, dark, curly tresses and bright blue eyes, eyes that held hints of _more_ stories just waiting to be told.

 _Every moment has its purpose,_ he told himself. _The woman is, quite simply, full of love to share with the world … and, perhaps, if you can get out of your own way to ask, she could be persuaded share it all with_ _ **you.**_

 _ **Every moment has its purpose**_

 _ **Every moment has its end**_

 _ **The only tree that cannot weather**_

 _ **Is the one that will not bend.**_

The wedding day flew by, as things like that do. He thought it anti-climatic, really, how they could spend months planning something that was gone in a few hundred minutes. But the touch of her lips on his before all the ones they held dear? That had been worth all the disagreements about school houses and estates and food and first names. They'd weathered those storms like they had countless before and, he hoped, in the same way they'd weather any that were to come in the future - by taking stock, being willing to compromise, and being appreciative of a fine result at the end of it all.

He looked at her from across the room, and the smile that reached her eyes and crinkled them at the corners was for him - _only_ for him, he now knew. She _looked_ different when she smiled at him, different from when she was enjoying a laugh with Mrs. Patmore or telling a story to the young ones. It was another part of that elusive _thing_ that made her who she was, this love that she had for her husband.

He hoped he'd never get used to seeing it there, never become complacent or take her for granted. He'd finally realized, that Christmas Eve in his pantry, that his love had been returned to him many times over, and he'd been too stubborn and set in the old ways to realize it. He thought he'd been spending the past many years silently loving her from afar but hadn't considered that she, too, had been doing the same for him, that she'd been spending the years trying to stem the flow of her own wishes and desires, also worried that in order to have what they wanted, they'd have to give up everything they had each achieved.

As it turned out, they didn't.

 _ **And you may hold the candle**_

 _ **But you cannot hold the flame.**_

 _ **If you ever touch that fire**_

 _ **You will never be the same.**_

He holds her as the first of twelve chimes signal midnight's arrival. The clock itself was a wedding gift from the Dowager, accompanied by a card with a lovely sentiment about the passing of time and making sure they mark each hour going forward with love, caring, and respect for one another. It brought Elsie to tears when she read it, given that the words were penned by a woman who knows only too well what it's like not only to _gain_ a husband, but to _lose_ one as well. And after all, Elsie and Charles's wedding had by no means come early into their lives.

Now, as the last of the twelve chimes rings throughout the cottage, he feels his wife shift in his embrace.

She raises herself up on one elbow, and he reaches forward to brush her long hair from her face as she leans over to kiss him deeply. His hands move to her bare waist as she shifts again, looking down into his dark, multi-colored eyes.

"I was just thinking, Charlie … It took you long enough to get us married," she teases, and his laughter is deep and jovial as he agrees.

"It did. Funny, it didn't take you as long as I'd expected to say _'yes.'"_

"Well," she whispers, tracing the outline of his jaw with her fingernail, "I'd been waiting for a good while to be able to deliver that answer, and I saw no point in putting it off."

His brow furrows. "For how long?"

She tips her head back, contemplating. "I think it was during the war … when William died, perhaps. Daisy was able to marry him, as misguided as she may have been, and I realized I was so grateful not to be in her untenable position. I felt horribly guilty at that, being even a little grateful that it wasn't you who lay dying. But I knew I'd never have been able to openly acknowledge your loss if it had been you who'd fought and died, not in _that_ way, and it was perhaps the first time I'd put to words in my mind that the right to grieve you as someone I loved was a right I'd have wanted to have had." She smiles. "I remember telling you I was glad you hadn't gone off as well, and thinking it had been very selfish of me to have said those words."

"Ah, but they meant so much to me," he whispers, and his hand trails up her thigh and up to her back. "I'm sorry it took me so long. You just seemed … unattainable, I think. So independent, strong, and sure. You didn't dislike your life, but by asking you to marry me I felt as though I'd be changing the very essence of who you were, the very thing I'd grown to adore."

"Well, you weren't wrong," she murmurs. "I _have_ changed. But I like this me better, if I'm honest."

"Good," he says, taking her in his arms and tipping her back against the mattress so that he's lying over her. "Me, too, I think."

Their bodies move simultaneously, hers making room for him and drawing him in, words no longer necessary as kisses placed to foreheads and shoulders and soft gasps of delight communicate quite effectively what their speaking could not … that through years of trying very, very hard to get it right, sometimes you _can_ have everything your heart desires - and even _more,_ at that.

 _The End_

* * *

 ***I have no idea if this is true. It was probably his age.**

 **Would love to know what you thought! xx**


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